


A Nice Trip (and a Safe Landing)

by Friday_25



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Resolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friday_25/pseuds/Friday_25
Summary: Cormoran is too late to catch Robin this time. Can take place wherever you like in the story, but in my head it's happening somewhere in the first half of Career of Evil.





	1. Chapter 1

Strike stumped heavily along Denmark Street. He had spent most of the day hanging around Chelsea hospital, keeping an eye on the wife of one of his clients. The young woman had arrived on time for her weekend shift, and had only left her department at lunch time when she went across the road to pick up a sandwich from Tesco Express. Strike had ducked into the shop behind her and bought a pack of Benson & Hedges while she used the self check-out a few feet away. She had been on the phone to her mother, chatting excitedly about her husband's new promotion.  
  
He reflected, as he made his way towards the office, that it was very easy to provide evidence of infidelity but much harder to prove that it wasn't happening. Suspicious clients- most of them men- would keep paying him to tail their wives and fiancées, apparently certain that he would catch them in an act of betrayal. Strangely, these clients were never satisfied if he reported that nothing untoward appeared to be going on. This was good for business, as it turned out, but it was dull work. Today's exercise had been particularly dismal, as Strike loathed hospitals. The smell of the disinfectant and the squeak of rubber soles down the endless corridors recalled gloomy memories of the months he had spent lying in Selly Oak on his return from Afghanistan.

As he neared the door of the building, a yelp and a series of loud thuds from inside made him hasten his last few steps.  
'Jesus Christ, Robin!'  
  
He had opened the door to find his assistant lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, an enormous suitcase across her legs. She stirred feebly at the sound of her name, and tried to lift herself up onto her elbows.  
  
'Shit. Are you okay?' He asked, hefting the case easily out of the way and then crouching down to help her up.  
  
'Fine. Yeah, I'm okay.' She replied as she regained her feet unsteadily, clutching her head with her left hand.  
  
Strike noticed immediately that the sapphire engagement ring was missing from her finger. It had been one of the first things he had noticed about her when they had first met, and at the time he had found it reassuring. Having finally put an end to his turbulent, on-off relationship with Charlotte literally moments before Robin walked into his life, he was all too aware of the ability of such an attractive young woman to threaten his delicate equilibrium. It had been a relief to know that she was absolutely unavailable, and as it became clear how valuable she was to his business, he found himself increasingly glad that there was no risk of his feelings (whatever they were) upsetting their working relationship.

'What are you doing here?' Robin asked, flustered. Though he often worked unusual hours, she had clearly been hoping he would not be at the office this weekend.  
  
'Hambridge called again just after you left last night. Said his wife was claiming she had to work today at short notice- he didn't buy it.'  
  
'And?'  
  
'She was there all day. Poor woman- doubt she's any idea he reckons she's cheating. Waste of a bloody day. Did you hit your head?'  
  
'Must've done,' she mumbled, as he led her back towards the stairs. She still seemed a little wobbly, so he gingerly put one arm around her waist.  
  
'I'm not going to ask why you're here on a Saturday with a bloody great suitcase.' He already knew the answer. 'But I'm guessing you could use a drink. And a sit-down,' he added, looking at her with concern. 'You might have a concussion.'  
  
'I'm fine,' she said again, but she leaned against him and allowed herself to be guided up the stairs. Outside the office door he turned to continue up to his tiny attic flat.  
'I was going to use that camp bed you had in your office.'  
  
'If you really have nowhere to go, you can sleep up here. I'll take the camp bed.' His years in the army meant he was used to uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. He doubted Robin would be able to get a decent night's sleep on his old camp bed, even if she hadn't just sustained multiple bruises.  
  
_Even if she hadn't just left her fiancé_ , he thought.  
  


Strike had met Matthew once, and hadn't liked him. It was clear that Matthew did not understand or respect Robin's decision to continue working for Strike. Robin seemed to think that Matthew was concerned for her safety, but Strike privately suspected that Matthew's feelings were driven chiefly by jealousy. Despite the fact that Strike had never so much as hugged Robin, he guessed that Matthew was the sort of person who objected to his fiancée spending so much time alone with another man.  
  
Frustratingly, Robin had seemed very keen for the two men to like each other, for the two contradictory halves of her life to fit together: Safe, boring Matthew, and the intrigue and excitement of Strike's world. Though she had frequently impressed him with her initiative, her resourcefulness, and her ability to charm difficult witnesses where he himself had failed, Strike had been reluctant to train Robin as an investigator, sure that she would struggle to balance the demanding role with a partner who so clearly detested her job. She had insisted passionately that what she wanted more than anything was to learn how to do what he did. He had agreed. He would not make her choose.   
Perhaps Matthew had.

Robin was quiet as he unlocked the door of the tiny bedsit. He sat her down on the end of the bed and kept frowning anxiously over at her as he poured her a glass of water and hunted out some paracetamol from one of the drawers.  
  
'When you said "drink,"' she said, smiling weakly as he pressed the glass and tablets into her hands, 'I thought you meant a _drink_ drink." She sounded tired, but it was barely after eight. He pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and sat, studying her face.  
  
'Well I did at the time, but I'm not sure that's a good idea now. Does it still hurt?' Without really thinking he reached out a hand and brushed back her strawberry blonde hair, running his thumb over her temple and behind her ear. She winced but did not pull away. Their eyes met.  
  
'Nasty bump,' he said softly. Then, realising what he was doing he stood up, suddenly. 'D' you want some ice on that?'  
  
She shook her head wordlessly.  
  
'Right,' he said, awkwardly. 'Right, I'll get your case. Take those,' he said, indicating the painkillers in her hand, 'and drink that,' he added firmly, pointing at the glass.  
  
'Thanks, Cormoran.'  
  
He strode out of the flat, trying to ignore the stab of- _something_ \- which he felt every time she used his first name, but which he preferred not to examine. Closing the door behind him, he paused at the top of the stairs and exhaled heavily, silently cursing himself.  
  
_You stupid fucker. What are you playing at?_

Making his way back down the stairs, his feet clanging on the metal steps, Strike replayed what had just happened in his mind's eye. He felt again her warmth, her soft hair between his fingers. He thought he had felt her lean into his large hand, just before he had pulled it away. As he reached the ground floor he tried to analyse his motives in taking her up to his flat. Was he hoping something might happen between them?  
  
He argued with himself as he lifted the suitcase and began the ascent, his knee protesting under the extra weight. First, he accused himself of trying to take advantage of Robin, vulnerable as she surely was, having clearly just broken off her engagement. He then defended himself: his concern was genuine, as was the offer to give up his bed. He wasn't intending to _do_ anything. He had always taken pains to maintain a professional barrier between himself and Robin. Granted, that had seemed much easier when that damned ring was on her finger. Now, his mind drifted inexorably off to what might have happened if he hadn't pulled his hand away from her face.  
  
_Stop it. She wouldn't want you, anyway._

But he had to admit that there had been moments, from time to time, when he had felt there was what he supposed might be called 'chemistry' between Robin and himself. Working together in the office and in the field, they had developed a comfortable rhythm. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses and could communicate almost without words, but also laughed together, coming up with nicknames for clients and sharing inside jokes. The bond they had developed was unlike anything he shared with his other friends, or even his sister, and was (thankfully) far removed from what he had had with Charlotte. With Robin it was easy, natural. She had a soothing effect on him; she helped him make sense of things.  
  
_That's why this can't happen.  
_  
She might yet get back together with Matthew. Whatever he had done (for Strike assumed it was Matthew's fault), Robin's warm, kind nature made it likely she might find it in her heart to forgive him. They had been together since they were at school and they were supposed to be getting married in just a few months. Would she really throw that away? Strike could not blame her if not. He had gone back to Charlotte time and time again.  
  
By the time he regained the upper landing, he had resolved once again not to do anything that would damage their working relationship. Robin was a huge asset to his business, and he could not imagine going back to working alone now. He couldn't imagine finding a better partner, either. Also, (and he tried not to dwell too much on this point) he cared deeply about Robin, and he did not want to be responsible for something which she might regret if she decided, after all, to reconcile with her fiancé.  
Nothing was going to happen. He would not cross that line.  
  
_Then again, if_ she _were to-  
_  
Strike re-entered the flat and heaved Robin's suitcase inside. She was sitting exactly where he'd left her, though she had kicked off her shoes. 'You ought to have something to eat,' he said, and then wished he hadn't because he wasn't sure he had anything to offer her.  
  
'I'm not really hungry. I think I just need to lie down,' she replied, rubbing her face with her hands and sinking drowsily backwards onto the bed.  
  
'Woah! No you don't, not if you've got a concussion.'   
  
Strike crossed to her in two strides and slid one arm under her waist, hoisting her back up. Robin was crushed against him, her hands on his chest, their faces inches apart. She flicked her grey-blue eyes up to meet his, and he found he could not break her gaze. He straightened up slowly, taking her with him, trying to read the strange expression on her face.  
  
_Fuck, fuck, fuck._  
  
He swallowed.

Robin was the first to break the tense silence. 'I'm not with- Matthew and I, we-'  
  
'I figured.' Automatically, Strike placed his free hand over her bare left one.  
  
The next moment, she was kissing him.   
  
It was as if time had both stopped and sped up alarmingly. Strike felt something implode quietly inside him. He kissed her back, softly and slowly, matching her rhythm. He had a vague sense that this was something he wasn't supposed to be doing, but found his head conveniently empty. The arm around her waist tightened and his other hand moved to brush once again through her hair. Robin gave a soft moan and he felt her whole body relax against him. After a few long seconds, his brain ground back into gear.  
  
_This is insane._  
  
With immense effort, he pulled out of the kiss. He leaned his forehead against hers and let out a sigh of frustration. 'Robin...' he groaned.  
  
'Cormoran,' she whispered back.  
  
The conversation went on like this for some time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before...

Strike woke early on Sunday morning and stared groggily up at his ceiling for a few moments before he was hit by the sudden recollection of the previous night's events. A jolt of mingled panic and disbelief shot through him, followed by a needling sense of smugness which he tried hard to quash. Had he really slept with Robin last night?  
Not daring to look, he gingerly reached out a hand to feel for her in the bed beside him. His fingers brushed against warm, soft skin.  
  
_Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  
_  
Strike was not usually nervous with women. Certainly once he had got this far there was usually nothing to be nervous about. But this was different.  
  
_This is_ Robin _. What now?_  
  
He turned his head and saw that she was curled up, apparently asleep, at the edge of the bed where it was pushed up against the wall, the duvet gathered up around her. All he could see was her golden hair and her bare shoulders.  
  
Robin. She was so _real_ to him, in a way that Charlotte had never been. With Charlotte, every arch look, every sigh and moan had been calculated to tantalise him, to drive him wild with desire. And though she was an expert in giving him pleasure, he was often left feeling that he had been somehow tricked- that it was all, to her, an act, a game.  
But Robin had just been so completely _herself_ : determined, self-assured, beautiful. Strike realised he was grinning stupidly as he remembered her face screwed up in ecstasy, the feel of her fingers digging into his chest, clutching his hand to her. The sense of self-satisfaction crept over him again, at having been able to give her pleasure equal (he hoped) to that which he had received.  
  
_She wanted you. Or did she just want anybody?_

The grin slid off his face as he chewed over the possibility that Robin had only slept with him because she was feeling desperate and confused, that he had been a welcome distraction, or even that she wanted to get back at Matthew for whatever had ended their relationship. Then again, he had considered this at the time and, despite having resolved to resist her, had become completely powerless almost as soon as her lips touched his. He could not be angry at her for using him. He was only afraid that it might now be impossible for them to continue working together. Yet he felt, he was _sure,_ that it had meant something to her; more than just sex.

Last night, he had tried (feebly) a couple more faltering sentences to stop her, to tell her this was not a good idea, but he never got further than 'Robin,' before he was silenced by the murmuring of his name against his mouth as she kissed him with increasing urgency. He had soon become completely lost. He remembered feeling her mouth form a smile as he had finally submitted, sinking down onto the edge of the bed and allowing her to slide into his lap, her knees either side of him, his hands at her back.  
She had slowed right down then, her kiss becoming deeper, her hands moving over his chest, his neck, her fingers raking through his mess of dark curls. Her touch was almost curious as she undid a few buttons on his shirt, slipped a hand under the fabric, exploring him. Her hands felt pleasantly cool against his own skin, which prickled with heat.  
  
Something had told Strike just to follow her lead, not simply to give her what she seemed to desire, but to let her draw it out of him and take it for herself. He had felt almost too stunned to act for himself, anyway.  
  
He thought back to her tugging her top up and off over her head and stopping then to gaze at him, for the first time a little unsure, her grey-blue eyes searching his. He did not know exactly what she was looking for, but was certain she could not fail to spot the longing in his stare. He was not equal to speech, but reached up and took her face in one large hand, gently stroking his thumb across her bottom lip. At this gesture she had broken into a smile that made his insides swoop.  
  
Things had progressed quickly after that. Strike vaguely recalled her giggling as she struggled out of her tight jeans, the pile of discarded clothing growing as she undressed him, too. He had left everything to her until the time came to remove his prosthesis, but even then she had stilled his hands, whispering his name and gently kissing his chest as she attended to his leg herself.  
  
He must have seemed like a boy to her, he thought. It was not until she was on top of him that he had touched her, really touched her, his hands moving slowly from her shoulder blades, down her back, settling on those curved hips. He looked up at her, stunned by her boldness, her beauty. She smiled down at him, seeming pleased, almost amused by the effect she was having on him. Her slight smirk roused him to finally act, and he held her gaze as he slid one thumb between her legs, eliciting a moan of pleasure which intensified as he worked.  
  
Focusing on her face- lips parted, eyes closed in enjoyment- he had almost forgotten about himself. The sensation as she had guided him inside her was so sudden and intense it seemed to knock the air out of him. She took his free hand in hers and pressed it first to her lips, then to her heart where she held it firmly, leaning into his outstretched arm with each thrust of her hips.  
  
Remembering now the final moments of their encounter- the feel of her straining against him, his hand between her thighs urging her towards a mutual climax, their mingled cries of release- Strike felt a great rush of tenderness and, unsurprisingly, arousal. He looked over again at Robin's sleeping form, to remind himself it had all been real.  
  
_Fucking hell. No going back now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this was originally just meant to be a cute fluff piece but I kept thinking about what happened between these two after I left off last time ;)  
> Might do another Chapter with Robin's musings...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin comes to terms with the events of the day before.

Robin drifted gently into waking. She felt warm, light, and content. After a few moments of sleepy bliss she experienced a stab of pain as she suddenly remembered her parting from Matthew the day before. They had both shouted and cried, she had thrown things. Matthew had begged her, literally on his knees, to forgive him, to at least try, to consider taking him back.

 It still didn't feel real, what he'd done. That he had, during the very worst time in her life, been behind her back  with another woman was almost inconceivable; that he had the _nerve_ to imply that she had somehow driven him into another's arms.

_It was a hard time for me too, you know._ Robin screwed up her eyes to clear Matthew's voice from her head.

She was surprised to find, now, that a weight seemed to have lifted. She had loved Matthew, yes, but their life together had become exhausting. His disapproval of her chosen career and his apparent jealousy of her relationship with Strike (rendered hypocritical in light of his own transgressions) had meant she was constantly walking on eggshells around him. She wanted to share her excitement with Matthew when she received praise or when she had a breakthrough at work, but she was always met with disinterest, if not outright derision. She felt like she was being forced to choose between her job and her relationship, but she was sure she ought to be allowed to have both.

After everything she had been through, Robin could not give up on her dream of becoming a detective. It turned out, however, that she _could_ give up on Matthew. It had not been easy, but she knew it was the right decision.

Last night had been _so_ easy. Her feelings of relief and liberation had combined to bring about in her a boldness that surprised even herself, causing her to take action where she previously would have shied away.

In truth, Robin had suspected herself of having feelings for Strike for some time. Though he could be gruff and uncommunicative at times, he had often surprised her with his tact and consideration, particularly towards herself. He was honest with her, both in his praise and his criticism, and, above all, he never seemed to desire her to be anyone other than the person she was. He made her feel so _comfortable._

She had also noticed that though Strike was not conventionally handsome, like Matthew, he had a sort of rugged appeal that was hard to ignore. She had occasionally caught herself wondering what it might be like to be enveloped in those big, strong arms. Now she knew.

Eyes still closed, Robin felt a grin spread across her face as she remembered the way Strike had looked at her as she slid into his lap. He had not been what she expected. If she had thought about it (and she had to admit her mind had turned that way once or twice), she might have expected him to be more passionate, dominant, perhaps even rough. But he had held her and touched her with a tenderness bordering on reverence. Any self-consciousness she had felt was discarded along with their clothing.

The initiative had been hers, right from the start. Cormoran had seemed content to let her take the lead, but even when his restraint had finally seemed to snap, Robin had felt in complete control, confident, _empowered._ She could not ever remember feeling like _that_ before.

A warm glow was spreading through her body now, as she remembered the feeling of him between her thighs, the thumping of his heart under her palm, which had prompted her to bring his own hand to her chest so he could feel her matching rhythm.

She supposed she had fallen asleep not long after collapsing onto his chest. She recalled Cormoran putting his arms around her and hoarsely whispering her name, stroking her hair. In the night she seemed to have rolled away, monopolising the duvet.

Robin felt the bedsprings shift on the other side of the bed. Strike was awake. She heard him moving around and then the sound of a window opening, the flick of a lighter.

She rolled over in the bed to face the room. Strike was perched by the window, what remained of his right leg resting on the windowsill, smoke curling upwards from the cigarette between his fingers. He had pulled on a pair of boxers and the shirt he had been wearing the night before, unbuttoned, showing his dark, curly chest hair. Robin was acutely aware that she was still completely naked beneath the covers. She propped her head up in one hand and, trying to recapture her confidence from the night before, cocked an eyebrow and said: 'Smoking? _Indoors_?'

Strike, startled, looked up suddenly, seeming to relax when he saw that she was smirking at him. Robin wondered if he had been expecting awkwardness this morning.

'I didn't want you to wake up alone and think I'd done a runner,' he said, flashing her a lopsided grin. 'You okay?'

'Never better,' replied Robin quietly, her eyes twinkling. 'Come back to bed.'


End file.
